


a world without us

by Rameine



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Consensual Infidelity, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Flashbacks, Modern Era, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Content, Social Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2600090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rameine/pseuds/Rameine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His relationship with Elsa was always complicated. If he's dating someone else, why does it feel like she's the one he just betrayed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. break of dawn

He wakes up slowly, blinking away the fog clouding his mind. At first he can't figure out where he is—the feather-soft mattress and bedsheets definitely aren't his. He blinks again and the memories come flooding back.

It's already light outside, early morning sunlight spilling through the window to illuminate the room. He sits up and shakes off the last of the fog as he sees the figure sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, wrapped in nothing but the thin cotton sheet as she reads something on her phone.

"Hi," he calls softly. Seeing him awake, she drops her phone back onto the bedside table and turns, resting her weight on one hand.

"Did I wake you up?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "What time is it?"

"Just after six. I thought I'd let you sleep a little longer." She smooths his hair down (a futile endeavor) and looks toward the window.

He doesn't want to sleep. He wouldn't have slept at all last night if he didn't have to. He doesn't want to waste these last few hours with her on something as mundane as sleeping.

"We still have time," he says. "Come back to bed for a little while." He holds out a hand in invitation, and after a slight hesitation, she accepts it and settles beside him again, resting her head on his shoulder. He kisses her and lets his hand fall to her waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her hip. She sighs and rests her hand lightly on his chest. Her fingers are cool, but her body is warm next to his.

"What are you thinking?" he asks when the silence grows too deafening.

She sits up and wraps the sheet around herself again but otherwise gives no sign she's heard him. He's preparing to try a different topic of conversation when she abruptly asks, "Have you ever heard of the 'many worlds' theory?"

He raises an eyebrow and props himself up on one elbow. "What, you mean like aliens?" he says, trailing a finger lightly down her arm.

She laughs: a warm, rich sound that always makes him smile. "No, not aliens," she replies. "The many worlds theory says that there are multiple universes that exist parallel to ours, where all the choices we didn't make are being played out."

"Sounds like something you tell yourself when you miss the bus," he remarks. "'Somewhere I'm not late to work.'"

He wanted to make her laugh again, but the comment only seems to disturb her. So he sits up and wraps his arms around her from behind. In a more serious tone, he asks, "Do you believe it?"

A beat of silence, and then she admits, "I don't know. I'd like to. I'd like to think we…" She seems to shake herself out of a reverie. "I guess it doesn't matter either way."

"You don't think so?"

"There's no point regretting what we can't have," she answers. Her voice is firm, but there's something painful that gathers at the edges of it. Not for the first time, he feels the guilt gnawing at him.

"Do you hate me?" he asks hesitantly. The question had been nagging at him for a while now, and he wonders if she was thinking of a world where she had never met him, where he had never disrupted her life.

She seems taken aback. "Of course not," she says at once. "It's just…"

She takes some time to consider her next words. Unlike him, she always thinks before she speaks, but every second that passes now only makes him more convinced that she really does hate him, in spite of what she said. He can imagine her answer going through a careful filtering system in her mind (filtered for things like _politeness_ and _decency_ and _neutrality_ ) so that it returns a kind of half-truth.

He touches her shoulder to get her attention. Her silence unnerves him, and he wants to see her eyes. She's become very good at hiding her emotions over the years, but she has yet to completely master it with her eyes.

She doesn't look angry, but his relief is short-lived. She's not angry, but she looks restless.

"It's just…I have a lot of regrets now, but if I had the chance I'm not sure I'd do anything differently."

It's in his mind to make a joke about that makes one less world, then, but she looks so lost, he doesn't have the heart.

"I'm sorry," he says. He isn't sure which thing he's apologizing for (because he has a lot of options to choose from), but it feels like the right thing to say. He cups her cheek in his hand and repeats, "I'm sorry," and this time he knows exactly why he's apologizing when he leans in and kisses her.

It's easy to lose himself in her. Much as he hates to admit it, she's like a drug, something that soothes him and gives him something else to focus on so he can forget. He can forget the years they've lost and the changes those years have wrought on both their lives. He doesn't have to think about his girlfriend, off studying in France, blissfully unaware that he's currently holding another woman, their bodies separated by a sheet. He doesn't have to think about exactly how fucked up he is.

He's never been particularly religious, but right now he prays to any God who might hear him that this many worlds theory of hers is true, because that means that somewhere he's getting out of bed and leaving her with what's left of her dignity. Somewhere he never started this madness in the first place. Maybe there's a world where he's still that ignorant, carefree kid who first fell in love with her.

And maybe he never met her at all.

He can feel her tense, but she doesn't pull away. He wishes she would. He'd have let her go then, if that was what she wanted. But the truth is, she's as lost as he is now. He took her poise and confidence and turned her into something she isn't.

He forces himself to break the kiss and say, "Maybe—maybe I should go." And yet even as he says the words, he regrets them and hopes she'll ask him to stay.

For a moment, she looks stung by what she must see as his rejection, and he mentally slaps himself. It seems he's bound to hurt her no matter what he says.

But she blinks and the hurt is gone, replaced with resignation. "If you want," she answers quietly. But she doesn't move, and neither does he.

Finally, as she sighs and starts to get up, he snatches her wrist and holds on. Surprised by the sudden resistance, she jumps and has to gather the sheet in her opposite hand to keep it from falling. She turns back to him.

"I don't want to," he says flatly.

She still doesn't move, but as she looks at him the bright, clear blue of her eyes starts to darken, and he gently tugs the sheet from her fingers so that it pools around her waist. This time when he leans in to kiss her, she meets him halfway and loops her arms around his neck. It's different than the previous night; that had been explosive, a release of pent-up emotions. This morning is tender, but somehow more intense.

He puts one hand on her back, the other cradling her head so that he can lay her gently on the pillows. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and inhales. She smells like soap and Chanel and sex, a combination he still remembers perfectly.

And in spite of everything, she smiles at him when he pulls away and entwines their fingers. It's a sad, knowing smile, but a smile nonetheless.

He doesn't deserve her. He never did.

"It's okay, Jack," she whispers, squeezing his hand gently. There's something very final in her voice, in the way she says his name.

His hand slides up her inner thigh, and she parts her legs a little further to allow him access. She lets out a soft sigh of pleasure as he slips first one finger into her, then another. She's already wet, her body welcoming. Although she's a little more relaxed from last night, she's still tight enough that he knows it's been a long time for her. (How long? Is it possible he was the last (only?) person to touch her like this? The thought makes him feel uncomfortably possessive.)

He'd been too impatient last night to make sure she was properly prepared, but then she hadn't seemed particularly concerned about it, either. Foreplay had not been high on either of their priority lists. But she's probably sore this morning, so he wants to be more careful. There's too little time to rush through this.

The sunlight has grown brighter as the day begins, but Jack refuses to let himself think about the time. He remembers when they had let entire weekends pass by without a glance at the clock, free of schedules, free of responsibilities. It had taken some persuasion to get her to that point, but it had been worth it. He doesn't think she'd be able to do that anymore, and he wishes he had the time to teach her again.

The first time he saw her, she reminded him of a fine work of art: beautiful and untouchable, something that had to be preserved behind a glass panel. She didn't do much to change that perception, at least publicly. But this is Elsa in private, soft and sensual and loving. He likes to think he's the only one who's ever seen her like this, and, hypocritically, he wishes jealously that he's the only one who ever will. Her trust (misplaced though it is) has always made him feel special. Once, it had made him strive to be someone who deserved it.

He kisses a trail down between her breasts and over her stomach, stopping to trace intricate patterns over her abdomen before moving between her legs, pressing a kiss briefly to her upper thigh. She exhales as he drags his tongue along her center once before slipping it inside her. He hears her moan softly as her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. God, she tastes just as good as he remembers, maybe better; and the sounds she's making are like a song. (Those are for _him_ ; that song is for _him_.)

Pulling away slightly, he slides his fingers back into her and listens to her breath hitch. He teases her clitoris with his tongue until her legs tighten around his head and her breath is coming in short gasps.

"Jack," he hears her say breathlessly, and he looks up. She tugs lightly on his shoulders, wanting him closer. "Not like this," she says. "I want you inside me."

Her words send a shiver down his spine. He crawls back up so he's positioned over her. Today he enters her slowly, watching her face transform with pleasure as they join.

Her eyelids flutter shut, and she exhales a long breath. She smiles again, more genuinely this time, and he can almost believe they're still back in his old apartment on his lumpy mattress, and that nothing has changed.

When he's completely inside her, she wraps her legs around his waist and buries her fingers in his hair again. Her smile is soft, peaceful.

Until now, he's thought that at least some of the reason she finally gave in to him last night was because of the thrill, the forbidden romance-type feeling. After all, she's exactly the type for that—someone who lives her life so tightly bound by rules and responsibilities that she'd let go in a moment of recklessness. But he's underestimated her again. This isn't about rebellion or liberation. This is her way of apologizing for the last five years, of bringing some closure to both of them. This is her way of saying goodbye.

"I love you," she says, and he blinks in surprise. She has never been the first one to say it, always cautious with her heart, always wanting some reassurance that her feelings will be reciprocated.

Tenderly, he brushes a few locks of hair away from her face. "I love you," he echoes.

His lips graze against hers in an almost-kiss. He forces himself to keep a measured pace, wanting it to last as long as possible. She feels so good—all of her, her hair and her lips and her skin flush against his.

He sits up and pulls her into his lap. This has always been his favorite way of making love to her, because he can actually hold her. She rests her forehead against his as they move together—slowly, but with a sense of underlying urgency. He rests his hands on her hips and holds her steady while they speed up.

He's getting close, but he can tell she's still not close enough. Slipping a hand between them, he finds the bundle of nerves between her legs and strokes her.

"Jack," she moans, her muscles clenching around him.

"Come for me, Elsa," he whispers.

Her legs tighten around his waist and she stifles a cry in his shoulder as she comes. He's just behind her, and as he groans her name he holds her against him as if she might slip away. This is wrong on so many levels, but it also feels right in a way very few things in his life ever have.

They stay like that for some time, wound around each other. Her fingers stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. The sun has risen fully above the horizon now, turning her pale hair and skin an almost ethereal shade of gold.

"It's getting late," she finally says. "You should get ready."

He nods, but again neither of them makes a move to get up. As the silence stretches on, a question begins pressing in on him. It's one he's wanted to ask her since they met again seven months ago, but time has flown by and he still hasn't found the right words.

He's still trying to formulate the question when she sighs and gently extricates herself, letting her fingers trail along his jaw as she gets up. She pulls on the robe hanging on her door and disappears briefly into the bathroom. A moment later she emerges with her hair clipped up.

"I set out a towel and a washcloth. You can use any of the soap and shampoo." Before he can say anything, she hurries out of the room, and he hears her moving around in the kitchen.

In the shower, he stares at the bottles lined up on the shelf. (He knows all of them; he'd even had to throw out a couple she'd left at his apartment.) He's going to leave smelling like her whether or not he showers, so he picks one and hurries to finish. He wraps the towel around his waist and heads back into the bedroom. The bed has been made and his clothes are sitting folded neatly on the end. He dresses again, but his shirt is missing.

"Your shirt's drying," she says when he comes into the kitchen. She indicates a hanger fixed over the doorknob on the hall closet. "I steamed it for you so you don't have to leave looking like it's been wadded up. Come have some breakfast." She pushes a cup of coffee at him. "You got a text," she adds after a brief pause, nodding at his cell phone where he'd left it last night. He picks it up, but they both already know who it's from. He writes back and then puts it on silent before pocketing it.

He pulls the coffee toward him and takes an experimental sip. It's hot, but not scalding; and he stares into the mug pensively. Somehow, she always managed to make his coffee even better than he could—probably because of her meticulous nature.

"Breakfast is almost ready," she says. "The bacon's not quite done yet."

"I'd have been fine with some cereal," he says, perching on one of the stools.

"I know," she answers simply. Behind her, two pieces of toast pop up. She picks up a plate and drops all the bacon and some scrambled eggs onto it, then adds one of the pieces of toast. She slides the plate across to him before taking the rest of the eggs and the other slice of toast for herself. She sits down beside him and they eat in silence.

If not for the tension in the atmosphere, this could be just another one of their mornings-after. But the silence now is more awkward than companionable, and all the little details she remembers are bittersweet. They aren't exactly secrets, but they're still personal, things that only she knows or can do. He has made new routines, new preferences with Cathy, who'd be more likely to meet him with orange juice and cereal. Jack shakes his head, trying to push the thought away. It's not fair to compare them.

After breakfast, she loads the dishwasher and goes to shower and change. Jack takes the opportunity to wash out the skillet for her and gets his shirt. It looks neater than it has since he bought it.

When she comes out, she's back to being Elsa in public, a perfect work of art. She scoops her keys up from the counter.

"Ready?" she says. "I'll give you a ride to the airport so you don't have to fight the subway."

He nods wordlessly. She shouldn't have to worry about chauffeuring him around on her day off, but he can't bring himself to turn down the opportunity to spend a few more minutes with her.

They ride in silence except for the radio. It sounds like some opera song, definitely not in English. He hears her humming along with it softly.

"What is this?" he asks.

Instead of answering, she skips past the song. "Sorry, it was just on my iPod when I got in. I know it's not really your style."

"What is it, though?" he asks again. For some reason, he feels like he really has to know, even though the title won't mean anything to him.

She shrugs lightly. "Il Divo. _Ti Amerò_." She says it as if it's nothing special, but something in the tone of her voice suggests otherwise, and he makes a mental note to look it up later.

As he watches her, the question that's been nudging the back of his mind becomes more insistent. More than once he actually opens his mouth and takes a breath to say something, but he can't do it.

Finally, they pull into the airport and she stops outside the doors to let him out. He reaches for the handle but pauses. This is probably the last chance he'll have to find out, and he can't leave without knowing.

"Five years ago…"

He sees her tense, her fingers gripping the steering wheel a little more tightly. "Yes?" she prompts when he doesn't go on.

He swallows hard and forces himself to say it. "If I had asked you to marry me, what would you have said?"

She doesn't move, but he hears her draw in a sharp breath. She brushes an imaginary lock of hair out of her eyes and says in a strained voice, "Let's not live in the past anymore, Jack. It's time to move on."

"That's why I need to know," he insists.

She lets her gaze drop to her lap. "It doesn't matter. Whatever I'd have said, there's nothing we can do about it now. The past is past."

He regards her silently for several moments. Then, quietly, he begins: "I bought the ring about a week before your parents—before the accident. I just…never could find the right time to ask. And then everything happened so fast, and you just kind of…shut down. After a while, I guess I figured you'd have said no anyway," he concludes.

She stares at him, her expression unreadable. "You thought I'd say no?" she says, more to herself than him.

He sighs. "I guess it was pretty presumptuous," he admits grimly. "I was just…" He trails off when he meets her gaze again.

He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just kept his _fucking mouth shut_ , he thinks viciously, because right now she's looking at him with something like anguish in her eyes.

"I'd have said yes," she says quietly.

It's what he'd hoped. It's what he'd feared.

A car behind them blares its horn, and he realizes they're still sitting in front of the entrance. It gets Elsa's attention, too, but before he can get out she pulls away and swings into the parking lot so they can talk without blocking the road.

She cuts the engine and stares ahead blankly. He's not sure if she's waiting for him to say something, so against his better judgment, he keeps talking.

"I've thought about it a lot since then. I shouldn't have left you like that. Whether or not you'd have married me is beside the point. You needed someone with you. You'd just lost your parents, your sister was in a coma, for Christ's sake. And I was sitting there like a selfish asshole wondering why you didn't have time for me anymore."

"No." She reaches for him and seems to think better of it, drawing her hand away. "It's not your fault. I pushed you away. I just got so overwhelmed, I didn't know how else to cope. You flew halfway around the world to see me, and I couldn't…" She lowers her head slightly. "I ruined everything, didn't I?" she whispers.

"Look," he begins, trying to sound reassuring. "We both made mistakes, okay? I don't blame you."

She doesn't look at him. Her hands are folded in her lap, and he wishes he knew what she was thinking right now. She must be upset, but her expression is impassive, revealing nothing.

He takes her chin in his hand and turns her head gently to him. "Look at me," he implores, his inflection almost turning it into a question.

He hears her draw a deep breath, but her eyes are clear and determined. She meets his gaze directly. Her calmness is more than a little unnerving, considering her initial reaction.

"Thank you," she says. "I'm glad you told me."

He waits, but she seems to be finished. "Is that all?" he asks uncertainly. He was prepared for her to cry or shout or _something_. Then he realizes, this is Elsa in public, and he's only allowed to see what she lets him see now.

Her expression softens. "Jack, somewhere there's a place where you and I have never met. So I'm grateful I got to know you, and for everything you did for me." She runs her fingers lightly through his hair and smiles. Her eyes shine with tears, but her voice is calm as she says, "Go. You're going to be late."

He stares at her for a moment before pulling her into a searing kiss. She holds him close, and he can feel her trembling slightly.

Abruptly, he breaks the kiss and gets out before he has time to think. He refuses to look back as he walks away, because he's not sure he'll be able to leave if he does. When he finally reaches the entrance, he allows himself to glance over his shoulder. Her car is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was meant to be a oneshot, then it grew to a two- or threeshot, and finally it's been turned into a full-fledged story. It will probably take me some time to get this done, since I hadn't planned on writing it all and I'm still working out some details. I'll do my best to update as often as I can, though.
> 
> Thanks for reading~


	2. interlude: rhapsody in blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting with a fantasie impromptu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who came back for the second chapter. You guys are awesome.
> 
> And a very special thanks to Gothic Ghost, my wonderful beta.

**_Seven months earlier_ **

At first, he doesn’t actually recognize her.

He’s sitting uncomfortably in an upscale bar his sister dragged him to because apparently they have killer chocolate martinis, but in reality it appears she wanted to come to see the bartender.

So Jack is left to sip his beer and try to look as inconspicuous as possible in a place filled with people wearing outfits that probably cost him a week’s pay. He vaguely appreciates a curvy redhead’s plunging neckline, but she looks about three sheets to the wind already, and it’s not even eleven p.m.

A small group of two men and two women come through the door. He recognizes Eugene but not the brunette with the pixie cut he has his arm draped around. Jack frowns. Admittedly it’s been a few weeks since he’s talked to either him or his girlfriend Rae, but last he’d heard, everything seemed fine.

The two of them take the first seats. The other couple continues past them to the next, and that’s when he sees her.

He tries not to stare, but looking around he can tell he’s not the only male in the place whose eyes are following her down the narrow walk to the end seats. She’s half turned talking to the person just behind her, so Jack gets the luxury of admiring that dress that hugs her curves in all the right places and tastefully displays a very long, very gorgeous pair of legs without her noticing. She literally shines, from the shimmery turquoise dress to the jewels sparkling at her ears and throat to her pale blonde hair gleaming even in the dim bar lights, falling in gentle waves down her back.

She takes a seat beside her date (he assumes) and turns to him again, and that’s when Jack almost drops the bottle he’s holding.

_Holy._

_Fuck._

Apparently he’s much more recognizable in his faded jeans and button-down shirt, because the bright smile leaves her face almost instantly when she sees him, and that one small act makes him feel like someone has just dropped a ton of bricks on his head, because there had been a time when he was one of the few people who could make her smile like that.

She looks like she’s torn between fleeing the bar and pretending she didn’t see him. (Un?)fortunately for him, she picks option number three. Sliding off the stool, she approaches him slowly, cautiously, like she’s—afraid?

_Of him?_

He’s not sure what he should feel now—various choices flash through his mind, but he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that she’s standing not ten feet away dressed up like every man’s fantasy. He can’t think of anything to say, which is a very bad thing, because that’s when he usually tends to say really stupid shit. That probably wouldn’t be a surprise to her, but if (when) he’d imagined meeting her again, he’d at least managed to say something coherent.

_Wishful thinking._

But for once she seems to be just as unsure as he is. She’s missing that aura of easy confidence she always wore so naturally. He can only remember one other time when she looked so lost, and that was when they were tucked away safely in her room. It’s a testament to just how much of an effect he has on her, and he would be flattered if she didn’t look so upset.

She stops in front of him, just outside her personal space (which is considerably larger than his), and he can practically feel the anxiety radiating off her in waves. Her arms are still loose at her sides, her back straight, but he can see where she’s collected what little she can of the excess fabric of her dress in each of her hands.

“Hello, Jack,” she says softly, almost too softly to be heard above the noise around them. It’s a tone he’s not accustomed to hearing from her, but frankly, he’s astonished she’s speaking to him at all—and a tiny, cruel part of him thinks of just getting up and walking away. But he doesn’t really want to do that. He may be stupid, but he’s not stupid enough to let old wounds steal this chance from him, a chance he’s been waiting for for a long time now.

He stands up, and she immediately takes a step back, away from him. He has the impression of a frightened animal, ready to flee at any moment. The thought that she really might be afraid of him feels like a knife in his chest, ice cold and merciless.

She’s starting to look around her nervously, and he realizes he still hasn’t said anything.

“Hi,” he manages. Not the most eloquent answer—not the impression he’d like to give after all this time—but it does bring her back somewhat. At least it gets her to stop looking for escape routes.

“How…how have you been?” she asks hesitantly. He can’t keep himself from looking over her shoulder at the other three, and all of them look away when they catch his stare. He got a look at her date, though: the tall, dark, and handsome type. Very GQ. Much more like the type he’d always thought she’d prefer. (Maybe she always has?)

She notices the direction of his gaze and glances briefly behind her. “Don’t be mad at them,” she says. “I asked Rae not to say anything.” And suddenly he realizes it actually is her cousin sitting there, trying not to stare too obviously.

It takes another moment for the rest of her answer to sink in. “Did you invite them out tonight?” He’s not exactly sure why the thought upsets him. Rae is her cousin, after all; but both she and Eugene have said they hear from her very rarely now. He has no reason to doubt that, but it makes him wonder how many other times they’ve seen her without mentioning it. Did they ever talk about him, or was his name off-limits?

“I’m only in town for a couple weeks this time. I’m going to miss Rae’s show, so I asked if she could give me a private tour today.” At his expression, she sighs. “If you have to be mad at someone, be mad at me.”

His annoyance dissipates, broken apart by her downcast gaze. “I’m not mad,” he says. “It’s just kind of a shock, I guess.” Her lips quirk upward in a wry smile. “So, who’s your date?” he asks impulsively, before he can decide whether or not he actually wants to know.

She glances over her shoulder. “He’s just a friend,” she says, and he thinks she might have put just a touch more emphasis on the last word. “His father is our General Counsel. Rae asked him to come so Eugene wouldn’t be the only guy.”

The fact that she feels the need to explain herself to him speaks more than she would ever say aloud, and he catches himself before he can actually smile. (Should he be pleased about that, though? That’s not something that should matter to him anymore, but it does.)

“Mm,” he replies noncommittally, taking another drink of beer. “You look…different,” he remarks, trying not to stare. To say it doesn’t work would be an understatement. “Pretty fancy for a private art show, isn’t it?”

Her cheeks turn slightly pink, and she waves a hand back at her group. “Will’s sister thought it would be fun to play dress-up and send me out tonight after we were finished. This is actually hers.” She plucks at the shining fabric.

So she hadn’t wanted to come. That’s hardly surprising, and he actually finds it a bit comforting to see at least some of the Elsa he remembers, because as stunning as this fantasy woman before him is, she doesn’t remotely resemble the one he had known. He wonders what she was wearing before “Will’s” sister dressed her up and did her hair and sent her out on the town. He wishes he couldn’t still picture so many of her outfits this clearly, but then she must have an entirely new wardrobe by now. Business attire, he thinks, because she’s no longer a university student; she is the Chairman and CEO of a multimillion-dollar corporation.

_(And he’s…)_

He remembers seeing it all over the news when she’d taken over. He’d watched her interviewed, seen her picture in the newspaper, and read more articles online than he cares to admit. Most likely she had been in one of those expensive suits, probably with her pinned up neatly for work. (He’d had a distinct love-hate relationship with those pins: hating that there were _so goddamn many_ of them; loving the moment when he’d pulled out the last of them to run his fingers through her hair.)

It’s hard to reconcile all these pictures of her. She really does seem like a different person in some ways, ways he can’t quite pinpoint.

Her so-called friend comes over and taps her on the shoulder. “Uh, sorry, El, but everyone’s ordering,” he says, looking uneasily between the two of them. “You want the usual?”

“Please,” she replies without taking her eyes off Jack, and he can’t help but feel a little smug as the guy walks off with a glance over his shoulder.

He leans against the bar and takes another casual drink of his beer. “So…is this a complete makeover, uh, El?”

He can tell by the slight flicker in her gaze that the little jab isn’t appreciated. But she’s still uneasy around him, so she only says mildly, “Will’s cousin is named Elsa, too, so he asked if I minded him calling me El. It’s not a big deal.”

That’s true, he knows; making up a nickname is hardly something to make a fuss over. But the name doesn’t suit her. It sounds like someone trying to pick her up, actually, too casual, too familiar—although admittedly that’s coming from someone who hasn’t seen her in five years. That girl he remembers is long gone, he realizes, and a weight settles in his chest. This Elsa is really a stranger to him in some ways.

Will returns and hands her a glass of wine. She thanks him politely and accepts it without further comment.

“Everything okay over here?” he asks, this time examining Jack suspiciously. He just takes another drink and looks back blandly, careful not to seem too confrontational, but making it perfectly clear that this is a private conversation to which he is not invited.

“I’m fine,” Elsa says clearly. “We’re just talking.”

Will doesn’t look convinced, but he’s smart enough not to push her. He hesitates a moment longer, as if he’s expecting her to change her mind and tell him to have Jack thrown out of the bar, but Elsa says nothing and he leaves again.

When he’s gone, an awkward silence falls between them. After a brief staring match, she flicks her gaze right and back again. Jack looks over, but there’s nothing there. Puzzled, he turns back and sees her take a hesitant step forward, keeping her wary gaze on him, waiting.

And suddenly he realizes—it’s not _him_ she’s afraid of. She’s afraid of what he’ll say to her. She’s worried she’ll be unwelcome.

It’s not an unfounded concern, all things considered. Their parting wasn’t a happy one (not that he can imagine any circumstance in which leaving her would be happy), but it hadn’t been especially volatile, either. Nothing dramatic, nothing for the books. It just happened, abruptly and unceremoniously. One day she was in his bed, the next day she was just a memory. (Well, not _just_. Elsa was never “just” anything to him.)

But she’s _here_ , and her eyes are alive again; and if they are strangers now, she’s still the same person who had once meant the world to him.

_No_ , he thinks as he watches her, _not the same._

He nods at the empty stool beside him. Her expression immediately relaxes, and the tentative smile she gives him warms him, because it’s been a long, long time since he saw her smile, and he didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until now.

As they both sit down again, he catches the scent of her perfume. That scent had lingered on his sheets, alternately comforting and torturous, until he’d finally thrown them in the wash one night when he couldn’t get to sleep. That was the first night he’d let himself completely wallow in self-pity, and while he was nursing a massive hangover the next morning, he’d vowed it would also be the last.

Silence falls between them again. She looks uncomfortable, but he only watches her. It’s not just that he has nothing to say (although he doesn’t), but he’s still trying to figure out what’s changed. She seems more pensive, perhaps, more introspective; but Elsa was always both of those things. He sighs.

_Maybe it’s just the dress,_ he thinks wryly.

“You look good,” she finally says, drawing his attention back. He raises an eyebrow, taking a moment to pointedly look her over head to toe. She flushes and says, “I meant you look…” she seems to be searching for a word and finally settles on, “happy.”

“Happy?” he repeats, trying not to sound as incredulous as he feels. He tries to see himself through her eyes. Does she think not being required to wear a three-piece suit every day constitutes happiness? Maybe she just doesn’t want to say what she really thinks he looks like, which is a much more likely possibility.

She tilts her head, studying his face carefully. Her gaze slides over to her glass, untouched. “Yes,” she says softly, but with more conviction this time. “You look happy.” She turns the glass, her fingers twisting it carefully. The liquid inside sparkles (like her dress, like her) and she picks it up but doesn’t take a drink. She glances at him, although he’s not sure she’s actually expecting a reply.

“I guess I’m happy,” he says slowly, but all of a sudden he’s not totally sure that’s the truth. He sets the bottle back on the counter, and her eyes track his left hand. He looks down at it as well, fingers devoid of jewelry, and can’t help but return the gesture. Her left hand is similarly bare, but she’s wearing a ring with an intricate diamond setting on her right.

_Her right hand,_ he thinks with something like morbid amusement. The traditional place to wear wedding rings for lost spouses.

He’s trying to decide if he should bring up Cathy when his sister comes over, flushed and giggling both from a bit too much alcohol and the attention of the bartender. She slides another bottle of beer over, despite the fact that he hasn’t finished the first one.

Her giddy chatter dies down when she sees Elsa, and her eyes immediately dart back to him.

“I should go,” Elsa says at once, sliding off the stool. “I don’t want them to think I’m ignoring them.” As she walks away, Jack can see the tips of her fingers where she has her arms wrapped around herself, the way she does when she feels most vulnerable. He watches her rejoin the others, and all three look his way.

“Let’s go.” He drops some money on the bar and abandons his untouched beer alongside her untouched wine.

.

_The first time he kisses her, he surprises even himself._

_It’s New Year’s, and he really hadn’t expected her to come to the party at all, but here she is. She even looks like she’s glad to be here, but he has come to realize he could never trust her outer demeanor. It’s one of the reasons he makes an extra effort to annoy the hell out of her, just to see how far he can push her before he gets a proper reaction. So far, the most he’s gotten is an irritated sigh._

_And yeah, so maybe he’s had a few too many, but what better way to get a reaction out of her than by kissing her, right? And she’s just watching the TV with a glass of champagne and this odd little smile barely touching her lips (and surely it was her fault for wearing that shade of lipstick that makes them look so tempting, after all)._

_He’s kissed girls before, of course, but not like this—not without any kind of romantic attachment (family excluded). In truth, he’s always thought kissing was highly overrated anyway, because seriously, what did a kiss actually mean? Husbands and wives, children and parents: everyone did it. Some people kissed each other on the cheeks just to say hi, some people did it to be domineering or rude (or annoying); he couldn’t see anything so special about kissing. But even this non-romantic one-sided kiss makes him reconsider this evaluation—maybe because it’s the closest he’s ever gotten to understanding her, now that he’s caught her completely off-guard._

_He half-expects her to dump that flute of champagne on his head, but she seems too astonished to do anything except stand there like a board, until he pulls away and she eyes him like he’s some kind of vagrant off the street._

“ _Happy New Year,” she says coolly._

_She doesn’t mention it the next time they see each other, and neither does he. But for a while she looks wary every time they meet, as if she expects him to grab her and kiss her again. He doesn’t, but that brief glimpse beyond her mask has given him a small amount of insight into her thoughts._

_That’s what he tells himself, anyway, but more than likely he’s just stroking his ego by bullshitting himself. Elsa isn’t someone who gives away her secrets easily, and definitely not to someone like him._

_But he’d_ felt _her._

_And watching her now, he thinks he can actually see something different, too._

_It’s her eyes, he finally decides. They’re still a startlingly bright blue, intelligent and attentive, but after some effort, he’s able to pick out at least some of her true feelings: impatience or curiosity or sadness. When she looks at him now, she seems more thoughtful. (What in the hell there is to think about is a mystery to him; by all accounts he’s not exactly an enigma.)_

_Whatever the reason, he finds himself spending more time with her away from the others, and the more he does, the more she opens up to him—bit by bit, like a flower blooming. The thoughtfulness in her gaze is replaced by something else, but he can’t name it (or maybe he doesn’t want to)._

_The second time he kisses her, they’re standing on the bridge overlooking the river by the university, with other students wandering by, all of them relaxed in the fresh spring day. They’re not discussing anything important, but she’s_ looking _at him like that again, and there’s something absolutely irresistible about that look, the slight tilt of her head and the sun gleaming in her hair._

_It’s still not exactly romantic, but it’s definitely not as chaste as the one from New Year’s. It’s a gentle glide of his lips on hers—and as innocent as it seems, there’s something dangerous lurking just under the surface, something that tells Jack he’s fast headed for a point of no return._

_She doesn’t exactly kiss him back, but she stays relaxed this time, and when he draws away he realizes her eyes were closed._

_At this point the logical thing would be to either apologize or kiss her again, but because he’s him, he does something completely illogical: he laughs._

_She looks baffled, then hurt, then offended, and even as it registers that this is definitely the most expressive he’s seen her, for some reason her reaction only makes him laugh harder. (Yeah, he is so fucked right now, but, inexplicably, it just seems hilarious, even if she does end up kicking his ass.)_

“ _S…sorry,” he says, trying and failing to suppress his laughter._

_She doesn’t bother responding and turns on her heel to leave. While part of him just keeps laughing like an idiot, the other part is going,_ what the fuck did you just do, you dumbass?

_He hurries to catch up with her and grabs her arm. He means to apologize properly this time, but when he opens his mouth he hears himself say, “Go out with me.”_

_She stares at him as if he’s just suggested she go sloshing through a mud pit (though given a choice he’s thinking she might prefer the mud pit at this point)._

“ _What?” she asks._

“ _Like on a date,” he says very helpfully._

_She folds her arms. “Why?”_

“ _What do you mean, why?” he says, and now it’s his turn to be baffled. How many reasons are there to ask someone on a date? (Okay, maybe there are a lot, but don’t they all usually involve some kind of—_

_Jesus, there really is something wrong with him. He should have just kissed her again and considered himself lucky if he didn’t end up in the river, but he’s never felt this way before and it’s making him act like even more of an ass than usual.)_

_She shakes her head. “Is this how you ask all your girlfriends out? I’d suggest you change your approach next time,” she tells him, narrowing her eyes at him. She starts to walk away again, and he follows after her, because apparently he has masochistic tendencies and getting told off once was not enough._

“ _You never said no, you know,” he points out._

_She pauses and turns her head slightly, not enough to see her expression._

“ _You never asked a question.”_

.

It’s four a.m., and he can’t sleep.

He woke up around one o’clock. At two, he’d gone into the living room to watch TV. At three, he’d finally decided to raid the liquor cabinet, thinking the alcohol might at least relax him enough to go back to sleep.

He’s sitting on the patio in the dark, still nursing that first glass (God, he hates bourbon, but it was a present from Cathy’s brother) and waiting for the sun to come up, because at this point he fully expects to still be awake for that.

It’s been just over a week since he saw her that night. He’s written about four texts to her in that span of time, sent none of them; dialed her once and hung up before it could connect; started at least five emails, finished one, sent zero.

Olivia says he needs to talk to Elsa. But Olivia was at school then, and she hadn’t seen him sleeping on the couch for a week afterward because he couldn’t bring himself to sleep on the bed she had occupied so often. She hadn’t seen the expression on Elsa’s face when she’d given back her set of keys to his apartment. She did, however, know about the engagement ring.

He’d considered keeping it, but that had seemed a little melodramatic—not to mention unhealthy. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to sell it or return it, and finally he had given it to Olivia to return.

And he’s not sure if it’s the shitty bourbon, or just plain insanity from lack of sleep—but this morning he finally hits _send_ on one of the texts. He regrets it almost immediately—not because it was a mistake to have texted her at all (although it was), but because it’s four in the morning and she’s a light sleeper. She purposely keeps her phone on her bedside table, right by her head so she won’t miss any important calls. Now she’ll wake up and find out it’s just a message from her ex asking how she is, because he couldn’t come up with anything more original or substantive.

“Really fucking pathetic,” he mutters to himself. He still hasn’t finished half the glass of whiskey, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of drunk texting. Probably for the best, because the last time she saw him they’d been at a bar, and he can easily see her deciding he’s some kind of alcoholic now.

He’s about to go back inside and try to lie down when the sound of his phone ringing makes him jump. He looks at the number, and he can’t breathe. He picks up, but he can’t say anything. Something’s lodged in his throat, cutting off his ability to talk.

“Hello?” she says uncertainly. “Jack?” Her voice cracks slightly, but he still doesn’t talk. “I…I just got your message,” she says in almost a whisper. “I just thought I’d—oh God.” He hears her exhale. “I’m sorry, never mind. I’m sorry. Goodb—”

He manages to make a noise that sounds vaguely like her name. He can tell she hasn’t hung up, though, because he can still hear her breathing, ragged and uneven.

“Sorry,” he says, struggling to get his voice back. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

It’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “You didn’t.”

Again they fall silent, but this time it’s slightly less awkward

— _because it’s four a.m., and they’re curled up in bed with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist holding her against him, content just to lie there together. And then he says—_

“What are you doing today?”

There’s a brief pause. “Just work,” she says, and he thinks he can detect a faint note of surprise in her voice. “I have some things to go over before Monday.”

“Oh.” He should have known that, but he was trying to think of things to talk about. He bites his lip, thinking of Olivia’s innocent suggestion that he “talk” to Elsa.

There are a lot of things he wants to talk about, but he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“It was good to see you again,” she says in a small voice, yet another one he’s unaccustomed to hearing from her. Maybe they really are strangers now.

He knows this is the part where he’s supposed to say _it was good to see you, too,_ but after that is when they both say goodbye, and he’s not ready to say goodbye yet.

“Do you want to have lunch today?” he asks on impulse, and the line goes so quiet he thinks she might actually have hung up on him. He checks, but the call is still connected. “Elsa?” he says, all the while cursing himself mentally. This is what he gets for being so goddamn impulsive. _Real smooth, Frost,_ he thinks bitterly. Now she’s definitely going to say goodbye, only because she’s too polite to just hang up on him. There’s a reason they haven’t seen each other in five years. (Isn’t there?)

“I don’t know if…” she finally manages, her voice hesitant.

“Look, I’m not trying to ask you on a date or anything,” he says when she doesn’t go on. “I just thought we could get something to eat and…you know. You’re only here a few weeks, right?”

The reminder seems to relieve some of her reservations. _A few weeks_ meant there was no danger of this becoming anything serious. “Maybe coffee?” she suggests after a moment.

“Okay,” he says, feeling like he’s become a little disconnected from his body, and his voice is distant and muted. “Two o’clock at Jersey’s?” Shit, maybe that wasn’t such a good choice. Jersey’s was where they always used to go on the weekends, and maybe she won’t like the associations.

“Well…okay,” she agrees slowly. “Sure,” she says, her voice stronger, more decisive. “I’ll see you later.”

He keeps the phone at his ear for a few moments after she hangs up. _I’ll see you later_ …it’s been a long time since he heard those words in her voice.

This is a bad idea. Except isn’t this what he’s been waiting for, a chance to see her again? He’s not angry with her anymore; he hasn’t been for a long time. He’d been hurt and resentful and frustrated, but even that’s gone. Now there’s just weariness and regret for such a dissatisfying conclusion to one of the happiest parts of his life. And the more he’s thought about it, the more he knows he was just as much to blame for that.

Maybe seeing her again will be a good thing, if he can just get his shit together enough to figure out what he actually wants to say. They’re both rational adults; there’s no reason they can’t have a civilized discussion and then go their separate ways again.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. This is either the most mature decision he’s ever made, or the stupidest. And he’s never been known for making mature decisions.

Back inside, he goes looking for the pictures. He has very few photos of her. There had never been many to begin with because she hated having her picture taken, and most of the ones he did have had been cleaned out when he moved.

But he had kept a few, and now he digs in the back of the closet for the book where he’d tucked them.

He finds it and flips through the pages until he gets to the right one, the only picture he still has of the two of them. They’re crouched in the snow, one on each side of a snowman. _“His name’s Olaf,”_ she had said, sticking a carrot into the top snowball to serve as a nose.

“ _And he likes warm hugs!”_ her sister had added. _“Now hurry up and smile so I can take the picture. My hands are freezing!”_

He kept this one because it’s how he wanted to remember her: bright and full of life, with snow clinging to the ends of her hair. She looks like any other girl her age. He used to think of this as the “real” her, but now he wonders if that was just his way of convincing himself that she wasn’t so completely beyond his reach.

He remembers something she told him one afternoon when he had asked her, teasingly he’d thought, if there was anything she was actually afraid of. But her smile had faded, and her eyes clouded slightly.

“ _I’m afraid one day I’ll forget how to be me,”_ she’d admitted after a long time.

He hadn’t understood what she’d meant then, but now, thinking of her eyes, of the subtle but unmistakable _change_ he’d felt in her, he wonders with a sense of foreboding if he’s about to find out.


End file.
